Happy birthday my ass! What’s happy about it?
What do you want me to say? Should I regale you with all the gory details of the beatings and the screaming? Would it be therapeutic if I told you that sometimes I welcomed the beatings? Hey, at least I knew I was still alive and that she was paying attention to me. If it wasn’t for all the brawling then I’d never be touched so y’know I took what I could get and I didn’t complain much.
I had a birthday party once. Mom was married to this really straight up guy, David, who wanted to play happy families and shit. He wasn’t like the other husbands. I was down with his Mr. Normal shtick and so was she – for a while. They put a birthday party together for me. It was real cute. It was how I imagined other kids’ birthday parties. I was starting to think I could maybe be a normal sorta kid.
The thing is, they threw me this little birthday party and she had a fit over me being the centre of attention. You’d think my own mother could calm the hell down for one day and celebrate my day but she freaked out. Who the hell was I to be getting presents and attention, eh?
The next day we came home from grocery shopping, all his stuff was gone, and there was a note on the table: “I need to go find myself.” We never saw him in the flesh again. What kinda crap is that?
The happy birthday balloons were still bouncing around the house. Stupid things.
You know something, the whole time she was with David I never got beat. The minute he left I knew we’d be rockin’ and rollin’ but hey this was our mother-daughter time and it played out as expected.
Somehow I made it past 40 without her killing me and she made it past 70 without killing me or someone else.
We’re Facebook friends. All three of us. Mom, David, and me. Can you believe it? It’s some twisted shit but hey it’s the only shit I got.